HIGH FASHION NOTES - THE CRIMPOLENE YEARS

The other day, your Uncle Harry was enjoying an early evening pint of HSB in front of the warming but obviously fake log fire at the Bell Inn, in the company of a smattering of like-minded gentlemen of leisure.Suddenly, the door burst open, flooding the room with the bitter winter air. A number of persons of late middle to retirement age entered and comandeered a large circular table adjacent to the one occupied by my good self.The were adorned in the trappings of the Outdoor Type and were in fact identified by one of my fellow drinkers as the local ramblers association.Now, I myself enjoy a bit of a ramble now and again, but do not deem it necessary to dress myself in waterproof trousers covered in zipped flaps and boots which are more suitable for a hike up the slopes of the Mattahorn, especially when I'm only popping out for a pint.Traditionally it has been the youth of the nation who wear their cultural affilliations on their collective sleeve so to speak - One can easily separate the punk from the goth from the nouveau hippy by their chosen mode of leisurewear.Now it would appear that the older generation have got in on the act. Instead of aligning themselves with musical cultural movements, we are presented, in the bars and tap rooms of the nation with The Business Cult (Sharp suit, briefcase, that "just dashed in off the train for a quick pint" look.) The Sporting Man (track suit bottoms, polo shirt.) And now the Elderly Rambler look (all-weather proof jacket and trousers, hiking boots, retractable metal walking cane.)Where has the "individual" gone? Must we nail our colours to the mast so readily? I remember well the days when the elderly ladies of England proundly sported pairs of no-need-to iron crimpolene slacks and their husbands sported a sports jacket and a trilby.No wonder the Youth Of Today are embarassed by their parents generation.I drained the final dregs of my pint, buttoned my second hand wax jacket and strode out into the bitter wind and sleet.

HIS NEIGHBOUR'S ASS

There was once an Englishman who lived in Spain. One day, he paid a visit to his friend and his friend's then girlfriend in their little house in Hampshire, the garden of England.Filled with the spirit of bonhomie and two pints of Stella Artois (which was more than his limit and brought him out in a rash) he invited the couple to visit him and his lady wife in the fair city of Madrid.But, he made an addendum to this invitation (in his patented Yorkshire Accent):"If tha cums, tha not embarrasin' mi by dressin' lark tourists!"So the next day, the Englishman and the soon to be erstwhile girlfriend, bought his friend, who, as it happens, turned out to be your Uncle Harry, some new holiday threads.When Uncle Harry saw them, he stood back and gazed in amazement, for they were real BRITISH LAGER LOUT ABROAD threads. The prize of the collection was a pair of khaki, knee length shorts.Not to put too fine a point of it, your Uncle Harry is far too hip to wear any such appalling strides and on the visit to Madrid, left them hidden at the bottom of his suitcase.Whilst strolling around the fair Spanish capital, it became apparent to your esteemed Uncle Harry that the Englishman COVETED HIS KHAKI SHORTS!!!A deal was struck which involved two Spanish release only Pentangle albums, and soon the Englishman, (not wanting to look like a tourist in his chosen hometown you understand) strolled around it's streets and gardens sporting his new khaki shorts.To his dismay, local youths giggled at the sight of his pale English knees and passing truck drivers wolf whistled from their elevated positions.Wracked with embarrassment at such an error of judgment, the Englishman tried to get his Pentangle albums back and to return the offending fashion item.Uncle Harry was having none of it! A deal is a deal.So, my dears, the moral of this frightening tale is: be careful what you wish for...And covet not thine neighbor's ass! Or Whatever.